


Now is the winter

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m a fucking idiot, John," Sherlock mutters. "Please forgive me.”</p><p>John lets go of his chin and sits back in gratification, enjoying his victory and the temporary shift in the balance of power between them. He would have liked for Sherlock to be a little more enthusiastic in his recitation but he assumes this is the best he can hope for. He appreciates the enormous struggle it must have cost the man to say it at all.</p><p>“Very good,” he praises. "That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” He grins. “You can kiss me now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now is the winter

Beta: lady_t_220

Disclaimer: all characters belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading

 

 

His eyelids tremble. Awareness. His first instinct is to try and seek oblivion once more in sleep. He tries to close his eyes again, to shut himself off from the world, then halts as his senses start sending several signals to him, rousing him to full wakefulness.

***

Hearing.

In the tree outside his bedroom window two male blackbirds are garbling and thrilling in the hope of attracting a mate. Less audible but closer he hears the regular slow breathing of another body, locked in sleep.

Seeing.

The dawn light furtively enters the room, filtered by the curtains, seeking a more bold entrance through the gap left between the drapes as they weren’t pulled to properly last night. He can see it through the crack between his eyelids, the grayish hue, a bright blue tinge to it, bearing the promise of a warm spring day. Lowering his eyes and looking to his right his view is filled with an eddying black mass of gossamer curls and whorls, the individual coils sparkling with glints as they are singled out by the tentative fingers of the morning light.

Smelling.

In the silky-soft spirals he smells the captivating clean, sharp, Sherlock scent that he’s so happy to find is still flowing from his lover’s body. The essence of electrifying genius that manages to override the aroma of the heady cocktail of arousal, perspiration and dried ejaculate they concocted together between the sheets last night. He draws a deep breath, filling his nose to overflowing with a bouquet that to him is sweeter than a bowl of French roses. He dips his nose into the sea of dark curly silk, nuzzling, drowning himself in the wholesome fragrance.

Tasting.

On his taste buds the lingering savour of Sherlock resides. From the bittersweet aroma of his plushly tempting lips to the sourly sensual spice of his loins, he revels in the sumptuous delights of that long throat offering itself up in its incandescent translucency and marzipan fragrance, down to the salty smack of the pre-ejaculate leaking from his beautiful erect cock. His mouth waters again at the delicious remembrance of every part of his lover he feasted upon a few hours ago.

Feeling.

Sherlock’s whole form is snuggled against his body. The lanky left arm trails over his belly, long-fingered hand resting lightly against the outside of his thigh. The lean leg lies thrown heavily over both of his, the graceful head equally solid on his shoulder. With his free hand he tentatively trails the endless expanse of smooth sweet skin awaiting his exploration. He has roamed this territory extensively in the past yet found, upon reconnoitering last night, he’ll probably never be able to stop enjoying the stretched-out spread of creamy-white flesh. Its inherent beauty so freely presenting itself will never fail to amaze him. He knew that much all the while it was lost, yet has found new confirmation now it’s all here at his disposal once more.

His luscious lover – returned to the land of the living.

***

Peace and joy and overflowing gratitude combined threaten to fill his eyes to the brim once more.

***

The pressing need in his bladder increases. John realizes that’s probably the reason he woke. He tries to ignore it as he wants to revel in all things Sherlock a little longer but he has to give in to the urge to pee. He sighs and starts to untangle himself from Sherlock’s clasp, carefully slithering away from and lifting limbs heavy with sleep.

He puts on his bathrobe and descends the stairs. He had taken residence in his own room again after Sherlock’s plunge, as their bedroom – Sherlock’s former room – held too many memories. Yesterday evening their need for a bed to fall into had been so urgent they had decided they weren’t going to waste time in making one up – even though the one downstairs is twice as big – and they'd get by with John’s narrow single instead.

John empties his bladder and turns toward the sink to wash his hands. He looks in the mirror and finds he’s grinning, looking ridiculously happy. He runs up the stairs to his room again, and stands beside the bed, marveling at the miracle that is gracing his sheets.

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter. He pulls his lips over his teeth and settles down into sleep once more, sprawling luxuriously. John shivers as he watches him. He recalls how last night Sherlock lay trashing in the throes of orgasm in his arms, his semen spurting between them, cementing their bodies, reaffirming their bond. John had stroked him through his orgasm, found he still knew exactly how far Sherlock needed to have his foreskin pulled back and up again over the crown; how much pressure John must apply as he cupped his lover’s testicles. To hear that throaty voice moaning and calling his name had been pure bliss, the last tug he was in need of before toppling over the cusp of his own climax once more, riding Sherlock’s thigh through the rippling ecstasy. He finds his right upper arm still hurts from Sherlock’s grasp, those lean elegant hands surprisingly strong, while his mind evokes the image of Sherlock the moment he completely tensed, offering his long alabaster throat to the onslaught of more fevered kisses before relaxing with a rumbling sigh into exhausted drowsiness, drawing John close against the planes of his chest.

Another sigh as Sherlock’s lashes waft upwards, eyes unfocused by sleep scanning their surroundings before settling on John. A smile starts its journey at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, tautening the cupid bow, permitting a glimpse of white teeth before flooding up over his cheekbones. It paints them with the merest shade of rose pink, eyes sharp and alert now, the smile sparking off glints of bright emerald green from the opaline intense gaze before the pupils begin dilating, hiding the smile behind the veil of desire that unwraps itself across his features.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you in bed?” His voice is still darkened with sleep, extending a languorous arm to pull John close, tugging with the object of keeling him over.

John resists. “I was just admiring you,” he says, “I still can’t believe it. You’re back, you’re not dead after all. I … I … it’s simply too much. I can barely believe you're real. Twelve hours ago I was missing you, wishing that we'd had more time and then- ...then suddenly here you are. I keep expecting to wake up and find this has just been some brilliant hallucination. And if that's the case, I don't want to wake up, Sherlock. I can't do that again..." His voice has risen to a jagged height, rambling in nonsensical muddle. He applies his lips feverishly to Sherlock’s hand, the inside of his wrist.

Sherlock lets him, eyes narrowed, before slowly rising and cupping the back of John’s neck with his other hand.

“I fully appreciate the sentiment, John,” he rumbles. ”Ineloquent as it is, and I would offer complete reciprocation. But I believe between us sentimental words are not really our strong point. Yesterday you proved so very convincingly you’re capable of phrasing your feelings in a more eloquent way, one which I find I hugely prefer.” He softens the words with a slow kiss, pulling John down until they’re both lying on the bed once more.

“Show me, John.” His voice is a dulcet seduction, lush mouth an irresistible enticement, eyes half-closed in languid expectation of abandon.

***

Who would be able to oppose such sweet temptation, or want to?

***

Later they lie recuperating, Sherlock lazily trawling his fingers through John’s hair as John looks up at him from where he’s resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You can laugh at me,” he attempts again, “but it is the truth. When you died, it was like having to live in winter. Just the same dreary, bleak winter day, every day. And now you’re back it's summer.”

Beneath him he hears Sherlock’s soft laugh bubbling before he’s cradled closer in an embrace that’s almost painful.

“Like I said, John. No eloquence in speech. And a hideous propensity to garble the Bard’s words.”

“What?”

“Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York,” Sherlock declaims. “Not exactly primary school stuff like your theory of the Earth travelling around the sun but you must have read Richard III at some point.”

“I can’t remember.”

“You’ve deleted it. Too many bad memories of all the hard work you had to do to turn that D into a B for your O-levels.”

“What? How do you even … ”

“John, please.“

The dimples appear in Sherlock’s cheeks and now John remembers that was one of the more exasperating sides of Sherlock, the constant showy cleverness, but he makes up for it with another long kiss.

After that they’re quiet again. John has said what he wanted to say. Though Sherlock phrased it better by quoting Shakespeare at him.

“John?”

“Yes.”

“I know I’m not a king. That wasn’t the reason I recited that line just now.”

“Mmm-hmm, good.”

“I want to make sure we both realize what you said yesterday evening is not true.”

***

Yesterday evening. Christ, who would have thought he’d prepare Sherlock such a welcome? Well, he’d had a right to be angry, hadn’t he?

***

The fire is crackling in the grate. The April nights are still chilly and the warmth soothes Mrs. Hudson’s hip. She’s sitting in John's chair, Union Jack pillow propping her lower back, as Sherlock’s chair is too wide and low to give her proper support. John is sitting there now himself though the chair is really too deep for him. Her knitting needles are busily at work in her hands and her mouth is moving likewise, gossiping about Mrs. Turner’s married ones who apparently can be a real nuisance sometimes.

“Not everyone is as lucky in their choice of tenants as I am, dear. Though, poor Sherlock … oh dear … ”

Thankfully she trails off in another direction after a look at him. Not that he really listens to her, he’s just going through the motions, humming and hawing at what he deems are the appropriate moments, nursing the cup of tea she’s made him and vaguely staring to a spot quite close to her head. It lets him pretend he’s actually paying attention to her ramblings, while his book rests unread in his lap.

Almost three years now and still the colours on the film reel of Sherlock’s jump are as vivid in his head as the day he saw it happening. The slow tumble of Sherlock’s body seemed to take forever though it couldn't have been more than three seconds, the image projected on continual loop right in front of his eyes.

Those vibrant images are the remnants of the bright world he once inhabited. Since those few fateful moments all the dyes and tints that once made up his world have bleached into a drab desultory wasteland, a barren dreary dwelling built out of shadows where he finds himself roaming aimlessly. Trudging to the clinic and back, to Tesco and back, accompanying Greg to the pub every once in a while because it would be hurtful to turn him down for the umpteenth time. He numbly accepts the well-meant invitation for yet another family dinner at the Stamford’s, and standing at the clinic’s and Scotland Yard’s Christmas do’s with a glass in his hand, congratulating Sarah on the birth of her daughter. Oh God, the hateful tediousness of it all.

He wants to scream with it. But that would upset Mrs. Hudson and she’s trying so earnestly to make everything easy for him, still half in mourning herself. She’s learned not to mention Sherlock’s name too often in front of John and he understands this must be quite a feat for her, managing to control that tongue. So John smiles vaguely to reward her and nods his head at her and helps her to make believe all is well in the world and they’re nothing but a landlady and her tenant, sharing another cosy evening in front of the fire.

Downstairs the front door closes with a thud, the sound reverberating through the building, shredding the apparent tranquility that reigned in the house until a second ago. He sits up and pricks up his ears. Is this it then? The moment Mycroft has so warned him against, stressing each visit that despite all the surveillance he could provide them with John must be on the lookout for danger constantly.

Mrs. Hudson stares at him, eyes round and wide, hands fallen immobile in her lap. He motions for her to stay quiet and starts rising slowly, putting his book noiselessly on the floor. His army revolver is lying in the bookcase beside his own chair. He takes a pace towards Mrs. Hudson, stilling as he hears the heavy sound of running feet, someone taking the steps two at a time, dashing into the hallway. ‘Christ no, Mrs. Hudson, she’s going to die,’ is all he can think. He lunges himself over her in order to grab his gun.

The door into the living room yields slowly from the push of a hand. John stands ready, holding his breath, his gun cocked and aimed at the door, all steady determined concentration despite the frantic pounding of his heart. He doesn’t care if they shoot him but he won’t allow them to touch a hair on the head of his landlady.

The next thing he knows Mrs. Hudson has flown out of his chair, her hip apparently no hindrance, and positively flung herself into the arms of the intruder who’s hugging her tight.

“Sherlock,” she’s crying. ”Oh John, look, Sherlock,” and he finds it is Sherlock indeed, a big goofy grin that looks decidedly out of place spread over his features. He bends down to kiss Mrs. Hudson on the cheeks and she throws her arms around his neck to entice him closer, wildly applying her lips all over his face, her own streaked by the tears that have started to flow.

“Is it really you? Imagine, how’s that possible? They said you were dead. Oh my God, oh gracious goodness me. Sherlock, my dear, dear boy. You’re alive. But how can that be? We went to the wake. And to the funeral. They played that Bach-piece you like so much. It was such a beautiful service. And that pathologist, Molly, she told us you were dead. We visited your grave. You’re lying in a grave, dear. Oh Sherlock, me and John, we’ve been so unhappy, how could you? And Mycroft... I didn’t know it was possible for anyone to look that solemn. Oh John, he’s back.” She continues her rattling while looking round at him again, face aglow with happiness as Sherlock literally lifts her from the floor.

The hand holding the gun has slowly fallen to his side, his soldier instincts having engaged the safety catch. He watches, mouth agape as Mrs. Hudson keeps flooding Sherlock with her euphoric tsunami of elation, holding onto him for dear life. Finally Sherlock carefully lets go of her, putting her back on her feet again with an air of tenderness, and straightens.

“Hello John.” The sound waves of the melodious baritone vibrate through the room, touching the membrane in his ears before they drop down dead, onto the rug.

Mrs. Hudson beams at him expectantly. He says nothing and watches her exultation start a downward fall over her features, transforming itself into concern. She steps up to him and touches his hand: “John?”

He can’t help but stare, taking slow turns between her and Sherlock.

“Would you possibly give us a moment, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock says after a while. “I fear that John and I have a lot to discuss. We would be honoured if you’d join us for breakfast tomorrow morning, though. You don’t need to bother with preparing it yourself. I’ll have Speedy’s organize something. We’ll have a little celebration.”

“Yes... yes, of course..." she says, glancing at John again before whispering audibly to Sherlock. “Be easy with him. He’s had a very difficult time.”

Sherlock nods, remaining silent at her remark, bestowing her cheek with a last kiss before propelling her out of the flat. He lingers at the door for a moment before turning slowly to face John once more.

This is the moment John has been praying for, waiting for, hoping for, for the last three years. Sherlock stepping forward from the shadows, not dead after all, his constant wish fulfilled. He has imagined throwing himself around Sherlock’s neck like Mrs. Hudson had done just now. Instead he finds he’s nailed to the ground, all strung up, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides.

He deliberately takes a gander at Sherlock from head to toe. He has obviously been having a whale of a time these past years because John has never seen him look better. He’s positively glowing with health and the zeal for life, radiating alien beauty even as he shoots an assessing stare at John. Who can tell what, exactly, Sherlock sees? The grey hairs that have steadily been invading the blond? The deep lines etched by grief at the side of his nose? The faded lackluster eyes? The only exercise he has had is walking as he had found he can’t ride the tube anymore, the compressed mass of bodies around him stifling him. London is a big city to travel on foot. That and a diet consisting mainly of cups of tea aren’t very conducive to growing a tummy. They do help in acquiring the gaunt look though. John hasn’t been this thin since he was sixteen. Very fashionable. Except unlike some others he’s never had the height to carry heroin-chic with the prescribed confident swagger. He just looks all used-up.

He feels sick. Deep down in his bowels the emptiness that’s been there all this time has been rapidly filled, which would be a good thing normally, something he has wished for so ardently.

But contrary to his expectations he finds this new feeling, whatever it is, is even worse.

Or, no, he understands exactly what it is. A demon is rising out of the black bottomless lake that was his soul, where it’s been lying dormant in the murky waters, and it’s roaring. It's vibrating his body as it shakes its angry head and opens its jaws to set his entrails aflame with all-consuming gushes of fire. It growls and bellows, spitting out the rankling rage and resentment to radiate through his limbs. Hellish flames of ire flow over him, impossible to extinguish, threatening to ravage him. The demon’s roaring changes to a high-pitched screeching as it mounts the steps of his ribcage, latches onto his collarbones to be able to gush its filthy noxious breath straight through his throat and out into the room, wanting to poison Sherlock, to raze him to the ground, to rip him open with a wounding gash. He's holding himself there, so sure of his welcome. How dare he? John wants to smash his fists into the face of the bloody bastard, to pummel the smug features of that cocky self-assured git. He’s balling up his fists so hard he feels his nails settling into his flesh.

“Won’t you say hello to me, John?” Sherlock breaks the silence at last, hands in the pockets of his coat. "Not even glad to see me? I’m certainly very glad to see you again.”

He extends his hand in John’s direction, his gesture accompanied by that persuasive smile he can summon up at will. John watches in astonishment. Can Sherlock really be that cheap?

He lashes at the hand, pushing it away.

“You’re dead,” he growls. "You’re lying in a grave. I go there every Friday at three.”

Sherlock hesitates, licking his bottom lip. “I know John. I’ve seen you. But I’m not dead. The fall was an illusion. Don’t you remember the lorry? I … “

“Why?”

“John, I … “

“WHY?” He’s shouting now, unable to contain himself any longer. “I mourned you, Sherlock. I mourned you, you arrogant fucking bastard. I spent three years of my life grieving for you. Three whole years and I have hated it. I have hated every minute of it. You have no conception of how many times I have wished I was dead myself.” He’s enraged to find his last words widen the smile on Sherlock’s lips, sending it darting up into his eyes.

Sherlock's voice, when it comes, is rich with pleasure. "Then I’m happy to find you’re not dead either, John. Don’t be angry but listen to me, I can explain everything. Let me talk you through it.” Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and throws it over John’s customary chair at the table. He motions for John to sit down, even as John locks his legs and remains firmly upstanding.

“Whatever you are going to say, I don’t want to hear it." John growls. "You’ll never be able to reason away what I’ve had to live through. Just because for some reason, to the no doubt disturbed mind of a self-proclaimed genius like the great Sherlock Holmes, it's worth leaving us idiots sprawling in the mud, wondering ‘oh, how does he do it?’" He finds he’s lost himself here and takes a deep breath, clenching his fists some more before he starts again. "Just because you thought playing dead was a good idea doesn’t make it one. Of all the fucking selfish ideas you’ve ever had, I assure you this has been the worst. The most fucking moronic thick-headed thing you have ever done. You’re the idiot here, Sherlock. A fucking stupid, cruel... What are you even doing here? You left. You left me. I don’t want you back so you can just leave!” He points to the door, his forefinger shaking with anger, his whole body trembling with the pent-up rage.

With grim satisfaction he notes the smile disappearing from Sherlock's features, any sense of smugness creeping away to be replaced by a look of concern, combined with the first beginnings of uncertainty. His stance has taken on a less self-confident aspect as well, turned into a kind of hovering.

Good, John thinks to himself.

“John, you have to hear me out.” Sherlock’s voice has a more pleading tone now. “Sit down and listen to me. I understand I will never be able to understand exactly what I’ve put you through these past years. Or at least I won’t until you’re the one that dies, leaving me behind. I’m aware this sounds crude given the circumstances but, no wait …” He raises his hand as John opens his mouth to let him know he can’t let this remark pass.

“Wait, John. Please. Believe me, for three years I’ve wracked my brain searching for a way to tell you I was safe and well. You remember what those last weeks were like, I wasn’t able to function. And then Moriarty … I thought I had him but ... I’ll explain later. The fact was, I had no choice, it was either you or me. Moriarty had hired a hitman to assassinate you the moment I raised my head. The only way to stop him was to convince the world of my suicide. I had no option but to jump.”

Coming from any other man this would have sounded too mad to be true, but it was Sherlock so the whole explanation, although Sherlock is garbling and half incoherent in his agitation, doesn't sound implausible to John. There's a part of him that earnestly wants to believe whatever Sherlock might say, relenting a bit at the obvious discomposure his – former – friend is demonstrating. Maybe the cocky stance was a guise to mask his uncertainty. Sherlock had always been such a good actor John had rarely known for sure what was going on in that head.

A great weariness threatens to overtake him. He slides down in his chair and Sherlock follows, gingerly perched on the edge of his, elbows on his knees, hands ready to aid his words with explanatory gestures.

It is John who breaks the silence first, however. “All right. I believe you had to act quickly. After the weeks we’d had with that mad creep hovering in the background. But please be so kind as to explain, Sherlock, why you had to go through with it for three bloody years?” He grits out the last part of the sentence, gripping the edges of the armrests. Some part of him is standing beside the chair, looking down on him in astonishment. Is this creature, so full of vicious rage, really John Hamish Watson? Doctor, ex-soldier, amiable fellow? Okay, he has bad days, he’ll admit that, but he never gets worked up like this, surely?

Sherlock seems to understand his need however. He touches John’s knee fleetingly as if he wants to assure him he can go off the deep end. His features still exude a beseeching insecurity John takes great comfort in, even though this does not lessen his need to raise his voice every time he addresses Sherlock.

“We discussed this extensively, Mycroft and I. We decided … ”

At the mention of Mycroft’s name John claps his hand to his forehead. “No,” he groans. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ. I should have known. That damned brother of yours is an even bigger prick than you are. He was here only a couple of days ago, commiserating with me. Jesus, the cold-blooded arrogance of it. God damn you, both of you.”

He heaves a deep breath as he sits back in his chair. “You tell me, right now, Sherlock. Who else knew? Who else did you trust to know you were alive and kicking, running happily around doing whatever? Greg? Mike? Molly? The whole of Scotland Yard? Mrs. Hudson? The whole fucking world?”

“Molly," Sherlock admits. "But only her. No one else, I promise you. And then only because I needed her. There had to be someone to sign the death certificate if the worst happened." Sherlock pauses. "Don't be angry with her, John. She's been a better friend to you than I have. She begged me to tell you but I couldn’t. Even with all the surveillance Mycroft provided us with I didn’t dare run the risk. You’re no actor, you can’t deny that, and you would have given the game away. It would have been of little consequence to me, but if one of them had decided my existence meant Moriarty’s orders should be carried out at all costs... If Mycroft had contacted me to inform me of your death, you can only imagine- “

John laughs hollowly. “I don’t have to imagine Sherlock. I know what it feels like when you find out your lover is dead. I’ve been living with it for quite some time, thanks very much. The pleasure was all mine. Jesus, Sherlock. How could you do this to me?’’

“I had no choice, John.”

John sighs. “No, I guess in your own mad reasoning you didn't. Christ.” He draws his hand over his face, closing his eyes. Upon reopening them he finds Sherlock is on his knees in front of him, his hand shyly touching John’s knee again, gazing up at him with imploring eyes.

All the anger fizzles out of John, as if his body is a balloon that’s been inflated to bursting and then left without a knot.

He lays his hand on Sherlock’s head, amidst the warm abundance of curls. He strokes his cheek, thumb tracing up over the high, chiseled cheekbone and down again, near the lean jaw and plush cushion of the lower lip. Sherlock crouches into the caress in his own inimitable way, thrusting himself into John’s fingers as if all the nerve-endings in his body are located in those few centimeters of skin. His eyes are half closed, his lashes painting a demure shadow over the tender skin beneath. He raises both his hands to grip John’s wrist, drawing it in front of his mouth to caress it with his lips both on the pulse-point and palm – Christ, how is it possible the touch of that plush, moist flesh always manages to create a wire from whatever part of John it’s fondling, straight to his groin. The kisses become more fevered and ardent until Sherlock is lapping at John’s fingers, drawing his strong pink tongue in long strokes across them, moaning softly.

“Sherlock.” He uses his other hand to stop him, to entice him into the embrace, the hot kiss on his mouth he suddenly, desperately wants. Sherlock blinks up at him, the transparent blue-green lakes flashing their satisfaction at the scene they encounter. Teasingly he dips his head, revealing his tender nape, before slowly arching up again. The look on his face is almost bursting with expectant promise.

“Tomorrow it will be in all the papers for you to read, John. I made sure they were the first to know. Their walk of shame. You should have seen the faces of the editors-in-chief this evening. A despicable lot, all of them. It took me two days, slaving away at Mycroft's, editing the evidence into a story even their half-mushed brains would be able to follow. And all that time I just wanted to be here with you.” Sherlock takes a more firm grip on John's knee at those words, drawing himself up, dewy roseate lips parted in expectation of that kiss.

The meaning of the words seeps in, filling John with a sudden, cold chill. The balloon is inflated with indignant rage once more and he jumps out of his chair to shove Sherlock away, sending him sprawling backwards.

“You – ” He’s shouting again. “You what? You – " He stumbles over the words. "Who the hell do you think you are? How can you walk in here and announce that it finally suits your bloody imperious Majesty to inform his serf he’s actually still alive? It's not like a couple more days dicking about to write the front-page copy makes a difference, does it? No, why bother to inform your slave, your handy bedmate, when there's a press conference to hold first! It's nice to know I rank so highly in your priorities. Just under the editor of The Mirror. Thanks for that. Must be nice to know I'll always just be here, sitting around, willing to do whatever his royal Highness pleases. Fancy a topple in the Thames or a tumble in the imperial bed? How about chasing some criminals around the city or just buggering that high-placed ARSE HOLE." John is panting with rage, hands shaking, voice raised so loud he is surely audible on the road outside. "Oh no, don't worry about calling John. A bloody phone-call, Sherlock, that's all it would have taken. Even a text would have done. But I guess you figured that good-old John will be only too happy to offer his services again so you can pick your own sweet time to tell him. Do it whenever it pleases you. Does that sound about right? Well, if that's what you want you can pick that nice royal backside up of the floor right now and find yourself another pitiful bastard to lord it over because that's low, Sherlock, even for you."

His hands flex unconsciously again while he’s flooding Sherlock with his scathing words, wracking his brain for the most hurtful sentences to hurl at him. Sherlock has scrambled to a sitting position and is looking up at him, astonishment and distress mingling on his face, holding up his hand as if to protect himself against the onslaught of verbal insults that keep coming forth with all the power and invective John can muster. With satisfaction he looks down on the spectacle his hollering is creating. That fucking self-centred git down on the floor, finally lost for words for a change.

“John … “

“No,” he roars and then stills as he sees that the distress on Sherlock’s face has changed into panic. His eyes betray his mind to be busily at work, weighing all the odds before settling on a look of acute fear. John is transported back to the flat of that reporter, Kitty Riley, with Moriarty throwing his ‘I’m-all-innocent’-act in front of them and he remembers the exact same look on Sherlock’s face when the realization of the enormity of Moriarty’s lies dawned on him.

He’s afraid he’s lost me, John thinks. Has he lost me? Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, I don't even know.

"I wanted to surprise you," Sherlock breathes. "I was going to clear my name; make them take back every foul thing they've ever written about you in my absence. I wanted to make it right."

John falls back in his chair, the sight of Sherlock so abjectly miserable pricking hard and deep into his conscience. “You're an idiot,” he says in a flat voice. "As if I care what they write."

Sherlock remains in the same position, his eyes still wide and pleading. “I wanted it to be perfect. Mycroft told me it wasn’t a good idea, but I found myself looking forward to your face beaming at me as we sat reading the papers tomorrow morning.”

John sighs. “God, you're a prat, Sherlock. It's not often I'll say you should have listened to Mycroft cause he's a world-class idiot himself, but... Christ.”

He chuckles at himself and Sherlock shifts tentatively on the floor.

“Come here,” John beckons. Sherlock crawls over to him on his hands and knees. John takes a firm grip on his chin before bringing his face level before Sherlock’s.

“Now you listen to me, you dickhead. I understand as off tomorrow you’ll be Mr. Wonderful-consulting-detective again. Fine. I’ll ogle the headlines it that pleases you. Not that I’ve ever believed a word of all the shit they wrote, but if that’s what you want I’ll do it. But right now I want you to repeat after me: I’m a fucking idiot, John. Please forgive me.” He adds some pressure to his fingers to convey he’s serious about this.

Sherlock swallows visibly. “John.”

“Repeat after me: I’m a fucking idiot, John. Please forgive me.”

“John,” his voice a whine now.

He tightens his grip, shaking Sherlock's head slightly, turning it slowly but with some force from left to right.

“Sherlock?” His tone is warning; he shouldn’t be kept waiting much longer.

"I’m a fucking idiot, John," Sherlock mutters. "Please forgive me.”

John lets go of his chin and sits back in gratification, enjoying his victory and the temporary shift in the balance of power between them. He would have liked for Sherlock to be a little more enthusiastic in his recitation but he assumes this is the best he can hope for. He appreciates the enormous struggle it must have cost the man to say it at all.

“Very good,” he praises. "That wasn’t too difficult, was it?” He grins. “You can kiss me now.”

***

The clash of mouths is, admittedly, not graceful. It's actually a little painful, teeth clattering, lips mashing and tongues grinding tightly as Sherlock probes John’s mouth with his tongue, groaning with the effort. The touch is not like the tender kisses of the past but he wouldn’t have it any other way right now. Sherlock’s obvious hunger for the kiss reciprocates his own need, a sensation too satisfying, overriding any objection he might have to the lack of finesse. The kiss reawakens memories of previous years as he tastes the salty sweetness of Sherlock’s mouth. Through his half-closed eyes he watches Sherlock who appears to have lost himself in the moment, eyelids shut tightly, intent on deepening the sensations the locking of their lips and dancing of their tongues are kindling.

“John.” A drawn-out moan turns the one syllable of his name into an exquisite endearment, the throaty voice launching an aural erotic onslaught on John’s senses. He knows Sherlock will never address him with ‘dear’, ‘darling’, ‘love’ or any of the other doting terms John himself has bestowed upon lovers, but what does it matter if he’s the one capable of plucking Sherlock’s vocal cords to call forth these throaty auditory caresses? It is a sound full of promise, enticing John to follow him throughout a pleasure land of lust and longing. He’s the one extracting Sherlock’s verbal pledge to gratify all of John’s senses, holding it up in front of him and guiding him like a vision of the holy grail.

Aside from their lips and the occasional brush of Sherlock’s hip against the inside of John's thigh, they aren’t touching. Sherlock has invaded his mouth like a glorious conqueror and is now the passer of laws into the realm he has usurped, reducing John to a delicious state of helpless passivity. ‘I am indeed his slave, God help me,’ he thinks before the strokes of Sherlock’s tongue become even deeper and more eager. He is careful, the lock of his lips finally unclasping to diverge the kiss into a sweeter sensation. The brute force of desperation mellows gradually to a languorous lapping and brushing, suckling and nipping at John's lips to the accompaniment of a melodious recital of sighs and moans. Sherlock has always been so good at this that John cannot find it in himself to complain when he rocks his pelvis into the juncture of John’s thighs, seeking confirmation of the power he held there once; is holding there now; will always hold there.

“John,” another quietly hoarse groan, uttered to reward him for Sherlock’s findings. The kiss intensifies again, the glide of Sherlock’s lips quickening, thick hungry strokes of his tongue over John’s as he sways his hips in the small space between John’s parted legs. He grinds their erections through layers of clothing, setting off electrifying jolts of lust that travel outwards from John’s groin through to his nipples and out into his whole body, rendering him into a shivering mess, intent upon yet more titillation.

His hands leave the armrests to grab for the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt but Sherlock swats his grasping fingers away with a gruff “no” and opens the buttons on the shirt himself, inviting John to partake of the view later, should he want to, before guiding John’s hands back to the armrests again.

John understands. Sherlock has decided he will be the choreographer of this encounter, requiring no more of John during this first round of celebratory reunion sex than acting in the role of willing participant as Sherlock takes care of all the other tasks involved; from glittering master of ceremony down to the humble role of admiring claque.

Still kissing and moaning, driving his hard cock up against John’s in a constant motion, Sherlock is all fevered action, his hands deftly flicking open the buttons of John’s cardigan and shirt before descending to his belt. He unclasps the buckle and opens the button and zip of his trousers before sending his fingers up to trawl through John’s hair, playing with the few curly wisps that peek out from the military haircut while his other hand starts to roam John’s chest. They still a moment as they feel the ribs that stand out so prominently now, before infusing his touch with warmth, voraciously grabbing John’s waist.

“I never understood your urge to fatten me up until now." He murmurs the words against John's lips. "We’ll do a round of all our old favourites in the weeks to come. We’ll start at Angelo’s. Work our way round." He confirms the words with a quick brush of his forefinger over John’s left nipple, which he obviously remembers as being the more sensitive of the two. John arches into the touch, more sensation added to the delightfully harrowing layers he’s already being subjected to. It induces Sherlock to a more prolonged teasing, rubbing the nib of flesh between his forefinger and thumb while his lips take leave of John’s with a long slow glide and a zephyr sigh to start a hungry tumble over John’s jaw and down his neck. The hand at the back of his head maneuvers him to lay his throat bare for licking, nipping, vulnerable flesh exposed for the sucking Sherlock is intent upon.

The fervent touch of those scarlet lips on John’s skin, swerving to the sensitive spot just below his ear, compels him to thrust forward a little harder into the constant motion Sherlock is keeping up down between his thighs. He can't help but be grateful Sherlock has lessened the constraint of his jeans on his painfully hard member. The need to thrust his hips up against Sherlock is fast becoming more urgent. He bucks again and gasps as he finds Sherlock is awaiting him, cupping his hand over John’s cock to fondle him through the material of his briefs, gliding his deft fingers over the ridge as if he’s fingering the strings on his violin. He strokes the crown, then descends tantalizingly slow along the whole rigid shaft to cradle John’s scrotum and still his hand there.

Another deep kiss passes while John tries and fails at not pressing himself up into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock's fingers go purposefully limp in response, causing John to groan with frustration, desperately stroking Sherlock’s tongue with his own to find compensation for the loss of sensation. He slides down deeper in his chair to seek the contact, any surface to drive himself up against.

“Up John,” Sherlock commands and he helps him to raise his hips so Sherlock can wriggle the jeans and briefs down. He pulls them off and throws them to the side, before closing his hand around John’s now bare and blatantly prominent erection. He is all quivering rubicund libido, the tip nearly purple and leaking pre-ejaculate, fingertips lightly squeezing the crown while Sherlock guides it to his mouth for one quick brush of the supple velveteen tongue.

“Sherlock – ” John's the one moaning now, his hand enticed away from the armrest to lodge itself in Sherlock’s hair in an entreaty to continue his oral caress. Sherlock smiles up at him then descends to nuzzle the crease between his inner thigh and perineum, inhaling audibly and grunting his approval at the scent he finds there.

John’s hand strokes restlessly though the curls as Sherlock moves his lips to the perineum proper, angling his head to press his lips firmly at the tender spot just below John’s balls. John moans as Sherlock exhales against his flesh, opening his mouth to start sucking, bringing his teeth into the game as well, biting lightly while he moves so his nose nudges the underside of John’s scrotum, tipping first one testicle then the other. One hand is still caressing and fondling John's cock, elegant tapered fingers lightly at play along the shaft, before the whole strong palm clasps around the head to pull his foreskin up over the crown and drag it agonizingly slowly down again.

John fights the urge to drive himself up into Sherlock’s hand. He knows doing so will only result in his lover completely stilling again and it's a torture he's not sure he can endure. He forces his body not to ride the voracious crests of lust Sherlock’s actions stir up, but rather let them wash over him, floating along on the pulling undertow of pleasure. Instead of arching into the touch of the hand on his cock he lets the hand seek the contact, setting the lips at chase across the swollen ridge between his thighs. His passivity is rewarded with a meticulously fervent touch, more worshipful pressure of swollen lips on his perineum. Oh yes, what an expert hunter for John’s pleasure that mouth is, tumbling down, down, ending right there where the his perineum ends, letting out the tongue for a quick deft probe at his hole. He parts his legs, opening to allow the gleeful dance of Sherlock's tongue around the rim, then up again all the way back to his balls, leaving the whole of his body taut as a bow-string.

He can’t help tightening his grip in the mass of whorls that mask his vision from the exquisite torment taking place between his legs. Sherlock's hand busily keeps up presenting the rubicund, swollen result of all that dexterity to his eager eyes and John can’t stop the stream of expletives that falls from his lips.

More waves are sent crashing over him as Sherlock descends down the tender skin of his perineum once more, lapping and sucking fervently, slicking him with saliva, nudging his nose up against him, panting with want. The same want John is experiencing; longing for Sherlock’s tongue to end up at the cusp of his entrance once more. He gasps his gratitude as his wish is fulfilled, Sherlock taking his time to wet him thoroughly, sending his tongue in a swirl across the soft puckered flesh. He breathes his name down there, flicking his tongue, hardening the tip to send it forward on a little exploratory mission, probing and teasing, sending forth another rippling roll of ecstasy before a fingertip takes over and the mouth slowly ascends. The stream of expletives on John's lips peters out into a string of greedy, sexual noises as John rolls his hips into the surf of lascivious rapture.

The very core of him is under attack from three different angles and the dirty bastard leading the charge knows this theatre of war like the back of his hand. John can’t escape. Pushing upward the fingers on his, by now almost painful, freely leaking cock grow still. Pushing downward the delicate probing of the fingertip stops. Pushing forward the lips let go. He’s a helpless prisoner of war in the battle Sherlock has engaged his body in. John’s last resort is to tighten his grip on the soft strands he’s holding onto, clinging like a drowning victim in the hope of conveying a message of surrender. He can’t think anymore, he’s in the throes of delicious agony, throwing his head back to concentrate on fighting his longing for release.

A shock wave hits his body as Sherlock's head raises and John's whole member is suddenly engulfed in a hungry, moist warmth. He forces his eyes open to see Sherlock slowly trailing the shaft along his lower lip, his mouth opened wide, lips formed into a perfect heart shape as he stares up from beneath hooded lids. His irises are dark and swirling, promise in his gaze before he completely stills himself halfway up. John’s heart leaps into his throat, the image of his cock resting against that plush lower lip, under the taut cupid bow, is the most wantonly erotic sight Sherlock has ever treated him to.

He forces himself to remain absolutely quiet, his cock, his whole body intent on pushing itself up between those fuckable lips, designed by a merciless creator with the sole object of driving him to distraction. He wants to heave himself up out of the chair and fuck that hot, red mouth, watch the cupid bow tighten itself around his throbbing erection and shove it deep into the warm wetness. He wants Sherlock’s eyes to gaze up at him, round and wide as John keeps his grip on the bobbing head, the curls bouncing to the pace John’s hips set as he releases his load into the long fragile throat.

As if in answer to these thoughts Sherlock plunges down again, his intent obvious, and John is finally, finally allowed to move. He arches into the wet suction, Sherlock’s tongue swirling along the shaft, his lips pulling the foreskin up across the crown and then sliding it down again in constant clever motion. One hand keeps him in position, the other moving up to take a grip on John’s scrotum and, oh, God, it’s coming. John screws his eyes shut in expectation of his release, feeling his body rise out of the chair.

Suddenly all the warm luscious wetness is gone and John cries out at the loss of sensation, his release already too late to prevent. He hears a warning groan that is his name and his eyes fly open in shock to witness the spectacle of the first gush of his semen hitting the high-boned carved cheeks and half-opened lips of his lover. Sherlock's face is a mask of orgiastic ecstasy, a saint in the desert transported by a vision of all that is holy, receiving the sprinkling like a baptism; a benediction. Another spurt hits Sherlock’s chin, his chest, and John is taken over by all-consuming release. Wave after wave seems to pulse through him, soiling the effigy of this wanton idol and he moans as it pours forth, draining his body until he’s completely spent, all empty inside.

Slowly the warm sticky mess starts a downward trail across Sherlock’s features, a few drops take the long plunge from his chin down to his chest. He sits on his haunches, offering John the most intimate view of the scene their debauchery has created, bringing up his hands to draw them over his face, anointing himself with drying ejaculate, up into his hair and down his alabaster throat, smearing it over the planes of his chest and nipples until it darkens the edges of his fine white cambric shirt.

The scent of his semen wafts up at him as Sherlock rises to kiss him next, plastering his whole lanky form against John’s limp, wrung-out shape. His lips are sheathed in a papery-thin film that flakes at the touch, giving John a taste of his dried release as his tongue is drawn into Sherlock’s mouth. They kiss deeply for several seconds, showered by a soft snowy drift of drying flakes sent forth by the contractions of Sherlock’s facial muscles.

Against his pelvis John feels the softening bulge of Sherlock’s neglected erection. He pushes up a bit into it and moves his hand downwards but Sherlock grips his wrist: “Later. I can wait.”

He draws his face down along John’s throat, onto his chest, crouching into him like a cat, stirring up another drift of flakes to settle onto John’s skin.

“This was my homecoming present to you,” he purrs before slumping down against the inside of John’s thigh. He doesn’t ask whether it was an experience worth waiting for. But then one doesn’t have to be the world’s only consulting detective to deduce the satisfactory result from the evidence John has spread so freely all over the crime scene. And Sherlock is an arrogant sod. The most delicious, delectable arrogant sod.

John lies in the chair, waiting for his heart to calm down again, idly trailing his hand through Sherlock's hair. His fingers glide over smooth creamy-white skin, rubbing softly at the few traces of the sticky mess he deposited there as he looks down into the calm beautiful face. Sharp all-seeing eyes gaze unblinklingly up at him.

“I love you,” he says. His voice is a croak, all choked with emotion. Part of him still hurts; he will continue to do so for a while he suspects, but it is nothing compared to how much he has missed this. “I want you. I’ve never stopped wanting you, I’ll always want you.”

“Hush, John.”

A delicate fingertip is laid against his lips, sealing a pledge unspoken.

But it’s there.


End file.
